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McCarthy's Bar: A Journey of Discovery In Ireland
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McCarthy's Bar: A Journey of Discovery In Ireland
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Pete McCarthy
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McCarthy's Bar: A Journey of
I find my grandfather, buried with Great-Aunt Hannah and Uncle Jack. His surname is spelled 'MacCarthy', with an extra 'a'; like many names here, it's a translation from the Irish, so the 'a' is optional, and may appear and disappear with the generations.
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Pete McCarthy
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McCarthy's Bar: A Journey of
The harp player had just fallen off the stage and cracked his head on an Italian tourist's pint. There was a big cheer, and Con the barman rang a bell on the counter.
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Pete McCarthy
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McCarthy's Bar: A Journey of
I use the pay phone to call my friend Noel. The last time I was here he took me up a mountainside in Connemara with a seventy-eight-year-old poteen-maker who'd learned his craft as a teenager from his father. We spent the day watching him double-distill brown bog water in two oil drums over a turf fire into something that tasted like the finest malt. Noel acted as interpreter, as the old man spoke no English. Perhaps he'll have another adventure in store for me this time.
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Pete McCarthy
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McCarthy's Bar: A Journey of
The harp player had just fallen off the stage and cracked his head on an Italian tourist's pint. There was a big cheer, and Con the barman rang a bell on the counter. St Patrick's Day, and McCarthy's Bar was heaving.
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